Job
by Kaira101
Summary: What happens when a job goes sour for Lestrade? Unfortunately, things usually turn out for the worst. One-shot. Character death.


**Job**

**A Sherlock Fan Fiction**

The light swung from a single wire, swinging deadly around the room as the free wires sparked and crackled, sputtering like angry snakes in the darkness. The walls creaked softly, and Lestrade could detect the faint footsteps striding among the dark room suddenly flashing with the damaged light's sparks. The detective inspector struggled to still his labored breaths into soft, silent whispers, his hand enveloping his mouth as his back was flattened against the wall. His other hand was pressed against his side, dark liquid slipping through his fingers. Lestrade grit his teeth as he felt the small, hard object still drilled into his flesh touch his insides. He knew the adrenaline surging through his veins was keeping the awaiting pain at bay, but there was only a matter of time before it was spent and he was finished.

He released his hand from his mouth to grip onto his Glock 17, thankful that he had already loaded and cocked it. He pointed it at the ceiling as he slowly slid to the edge of the wall to peak out into the open. The light crackled once, allowing Lestrade a single glance of the intruder. Unfortunately, his face was covered by a black morph mask, and his head was covered by a white cap. His body was hidden from view by an overturned table, but the glint of the semi-auto M4 barrel caught his eye, and Lestrade swiftly hid behind the wall. His heart thundered against his chest like a hammer, and he was greatly aware that the side of his jacket was growing far more heavy and moist than a moment ago. He applied more pressure to the wound, his head light and his mind swimming.

Suddenly, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibrated sounded deafening in the quiet, dark room and Lestrade went cold, his heart freezing a mere fraction of a second before suddenly pounding furiously against his chest, his throat dry and sore. With shaking hands, he fumbled with his pocket before finally tearing the bloody thing out. He did not dare allow the screen to shine in the darkness, but simply pressed the 'on' button for the sake of shutting it up rather than answering the call. John's voice rang out from the other end, and Lestrade shoved it in his jacket to stifle the noise.

"Greg, we'll be there in less than five minutes; we had a bit of trouble in an alleyway—Sherlock's disguise didn't work out and we had to improvise. You'll want to get your boys to clean up the mess-a few broken bones and such. Nothing too serious…Greg? Are you there?"

Lestrade swallowed thickly as he listened to the footsteps echoing from within the room, slow and searching. Licking his lips nervously, he raised the phone to his mouth with a quivering, bloody hand, and his voice came lower than a whisper: "Do not come. Stay where you are, John. You can't come."

"Lestrade? You'll have to speak louder; I can hardly hear you."

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deep, shaky breaths. Dare he speak louder than a whisper? He spared a quick glace behind his shoulder to find the intruder making his way down the other hall, and he released the breath he hadn't realized he held. Praying that the man could not hear him, his grip tight and sweaty on his Glock 17, he whispered a little louder, "You need to stay where you are, John. Our base has been…compromised."

John's voice rang out on the other end, laden with concern. "Lestrade, what's happened?"

The room suddenly shimmered out of focus, spinning with nauseating speed. He shut his eyes for a moment, fighting back the urge to vomit as his mind plummeted into a roller coaster. He struggled to remain upright, and lost the battle. His back slid down the wall and until his backside touched the floor, his head lolling on his shoulders. Lestrade cracked his eyes open and wondered how he managed to get onto the ground. He was standing just a moment ago. The room was a cloud of dark grays and blacks, followed by the occasional flash of light. Was he inside a thundercloud? As a boy, he had always wondered what a thundercloud looked like up close.

"What?" Lestrade knew he was asked a question; for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was. His mind was in jumbles, and he couldn't understand what he was doing. Was that a gun in his hand? Why did he have a gun? And why did his other hand feel so wet?

"_Lestrade._" Familiar—the voice was incredibly familiar. It was usually so calm and comforting, with a soothing tone. But now it held a sharp edge to it, and a firmness reserved only for the most serious of occasions. An alarm clock rang at the back of his head, and spark of memory erupted into Lestrade's consciousness. "Lestrade, tell me what happened."

The phone weighed heavily in the detective inspector's hand, and he struggled to keep it next to his ear. He opened his mouth to find his lips cracked and his throat dry and his voice wavered in his throat. For one heart-stopping moment, Lestrade thought that somehow he had forgotten to speak. He tried to remember what words sounded like again on his tongue, his mouth opening and closing. Then miraculously, he found his voice. "Attacked. Came out…of nowhere. Just burst from an office an' started…firing. M4…semi-auto. N-no face…black morph mask."

Lestrade heard distant voices on the other end, one deep and growling. _Sherlock. _He spoke urgently, his syllables short and quick. John's voice erupted from the phone again. "Lestrade…the department?"

The memory finally surfaced, following the crimson blood-bath flashing over his vision. Lestrade felt a sudden flaming energy burst into his stomach, causing his nostrils to flare and eyes burn. His pain disappeared like a gust of wind, as did his dizziness. He ground his teeth together, feeling the anger boil into his limbs. He gripped the phone tighter, feeling his strength come back. He gathered his feet under himself and slowly stood, using the wall as support. "Dead," he growled lowly. "All of 'em. There is no way he's that bloody good of a shot, so he has backup. Snipers, probably. It was too chaotic to locate any of 'em." It was easier to speak, and he was comforted by the crisp, authoritative tone that found its way back into his voice. It gave him the illusion that he was perfectly fine.

Lestrade heard John curse. "All of them?" he whispered.

That sentence rang inside his head, fueling his fury that churned in the pit of his stomach. His mind cleared, and he shifted the grip on his Glock 17 into a more stable position. "Yeah."

There was a long pause on the other line as John murmured to Sherlock, who answered in his deep voice. "Lestrade?" John asked. "How are you?"

Lestrade froze as he listened to the footsteps echoing through the hall, coming closer. He tightened his grip on his gun and ignored John's question, saying instead, "A bullet struck my radio and I hadn't been given any time to call. I need you to contact Donovan and Anderson; they weren't in the department building and they can contact the other departments. They'll need to check the surrounding buildings for any snipers; it could be a possibility that they are targeting every department, not just this one. Once their area is secure, they'll need to send a team down here. I'd guess there are at least four snipers, and one man in the building."

"Lestrade—"

"Judging from the speed in which they took everyone out, there might be more. Probably equipped with high-powered sniper rifles quick to load."

"Lestrade—"

"I suspect once the team arrives, they'll have to scale the surrounding buildings as well. They'll only need a small team inside, since only one is inside. The real threat—"

Sherlock's voice immediately rushed into his ear, sounding incredibly annoyed and roaring with anger. "Lestrade, if you say another word about the snipers, I swear I'll tear your throat out and experiment on the flammable capabilities of it. Now tell me, what is your condition!?"

Lestrade hesitated, staring down at his leg now dripping with blood and side throbbing. The only thing that had kept him from passing out was the sheer willpower and anger surging through his veins. The blood loss was elevating to a dangerous height and Lestrade knew that these several minutes could be his last. He licked his lips again and whispered in an almost emotionless voice, "I'm fine. Shot in the side," he grunted. It was a blunt, quick answer, and gave no real information for John to evaluate his true condition. Lestrade didn't care about his condition; he wanted to avenge his fallen officers. And he knew the bloody doctor would try his best to stop him. He tried to shrug it off with a comment. "I've had worse." That didn't entirely lessen the impact.

"I don't _**care **_if you've had worse, Lestrade," Sherlock hissed. "You are a valuable witness and I need you to remain-" Lestrade couldn't hear the rest of it as he shoved the phone into his armpit and the footsteps grew louder. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized the hastened pace. The cock of his weapon echoed against the walls soon after and Lestrade cursed silently.

The room suddenly roared with the power of a semi-automatic M4, the walls flickering with light as the bullets poured through the metal barrel. Behind him, Lestrade could feel the fragile walls crumble beneath each tear of metal, the ground vibrating under the soles of his feet. As swiftly as he could, Lestrade shoved himself off from the wall and gripped his Glock 17, praying that his aim remained as true as a decade ago. His shoes skidded off the floor as he reached the corner. It was quicker than a second when his eye perceived the masked form and calculated his position. With a correction of his hand and a squeeze of the trigger, the masked man crumpled with a yelp, blood spraying across the floor as he collapsed, his M4 clattering to the ground with a great shutter. The man's limbs splayed out before him and remained still. Before Lestrade could retain the fact that his enemy was on the ground and dead, before a ghost of a grim smile could take his lips, there was a second shatter of glass. Something impacted against his back, tearing into clothes, flesh, and bone.

And suddenly his chest burned, a sharp, agonizing pain erupting in his torso. It sizzled and gnashed at his organs, tearing them apart. A massive, invisible wall emerged inside his chest, preventing him from breathing. His lungs sucked in desperately, but his throat did not cooperate. His mouth gaped open in pleading, his surroundings spinning at a dizzy pace as his limbs grew as heavy as lead. His vision faded to black in one moment, his eye lids fluttering as the pain pounded at his head. When he opened them again, he was mildly shocked to find the ground closer to his face than he had ever seen, something cold pressing against his cheek. He wheezed out a measly breath, the room still spinning at a nauseating pace as the sizzling heat incased his form, feeling like termites feasting on his flesh.

There was a jumble of voices echoing near him, high-pitched and panicked to the point of hysteria. The volume sounded so loud and yet so distant, like a frightened father roaring out for his missing child. Lestrade wondered why it was so difficult to understand their voices and form their words in his mind:

"Greg? GREG!? What happened? Are you there? _Answer the bloody phone! _No, _of course _he's not answering!_"_

"Lestrade, are you hit? Are you conscious?"

"Nonononono…_please _say something!"

"DETECTIVE INSPECTOR GREG LESTRADE I HAVEN'T WORKED WITH YOU ALL THESE YEARS TO LISTEN TO YOU DIE ON THE PHONE!"

A smile found its way on Lestrade's face as something warm and sticky trickled up his throat and into his mouth. It was odd; Lestrade felt rather humorous at the moment. His throat constricted into a painful cough that sounded horrifically like a gurgled hiss, and the warm substance spilled out of his mouth, tasting of salt. He moved his mouth experimentally, groaning softly as a fresh wave of agony shuttered across his frame.

"L-looks like 't's mmy t-turn to die, Sherlo'." The agony caused his tongue to move slowly and the blood sleeked over his lips caused his 'm' to slip. But after the words fell from his lips, he grimaced in success and grim satisfaction. He tried to bark in laughter at his own pathetic joke, but it came more as a hoarse croak. His vision rapidly dotted in dark grays, and he felt the floor underneath him grow steadily wetter.

There was a short pause on the phone laying a foot away from Lestrade, before Sherlock's voice rang out crisply, set in an odd tone the detector had never heard before. "Lestrade, we are on our way. The teams are already half-way there. But I need you to speak. Your condition. Give it."

Speak even more? But the pain was horrific in his chest, and it was agony just breathing. Couldn't he simply remain silent and drown in his own life-fluids? It was a massive temptation, just like a cigarette waving in front of his face as he twitched. The inferno erupted again, sharper than ever as it gnashed at his chest and spread through his body like a swarm of infuriated bees. A shadow lurked its way at the corners of his vision, growing steadily larger. Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut as his surroundings continued to spin. He wanted to expel his dinner onto the ground before him, if it hadn't spilled from his stomach. He breathed rapidly, sucking in small amounts of air.

"_Greg_." Urgency. Panic. _Fear_. Lestrade could detect it in Sherlock's voice, no matter how small its quantity. He could practically _feel _the curly-haired detector breathing down his neck, eyes narrow but his pupils dilated in sudden subtle 's eyes snapped open when the realization struck him with the force of a moving truck: Sherlock Holmes, a man of logic and reason, who absolutely despised the very notion of feeling or human qualities, was _scared. _Concerned of his well-being. What on Earth had John brought onto the man?

He blinked his eyes rapidly, grimacing at any sudden movement that flared his agony, gasping shortly. A thick coat of the salty substance obstructed his windpipe, and his lungs screamed for oxygen. His chest heaved in a painful cough as the fire licked at his throat and clawed at the flesh, raking it slowly. The blood spilled again from his lips, and he managed another breath. _Come on, Lestrade. Answer the bloody man! _

Again, he struggled with his words, the blood and shortness of breath not aiding him further in his plight. But he managed. Barely.

"F-first bullet…above h-hip at-t the left side. S-shot the bloody fool when h-he opened fire…but…the s-snipers…"

"Yes, yes, Greg. I deduced as much. But _where?_" The sounds of car doors slamming shut echoed from the phone, and Lestrade guessed that they were in a taxi or were already here.

He coughed again, limbs beginning to shiver violently. He didn't have to be a doctor to know that was bad. Very bad. "N-not sure," he gasped, struggling to slow the furious beating of his aching heart. It pounded too hard against his chest and brought further pain. "In the b-back. B-bullet's in the c-chest…p-punctured a lung, p-probably. C-can't r-really (cough) breathe…"

A steady flow of curses filled the room, which grew darker with each passing moment. His fingers were growing cold and numb, the back of his neck prickling over the sudden chill. He shivered again, so violently it brought intense pain. Why wouldn't the room stop spinning?

"Okay, Lestrade. That's fine. We can work that out. But just talk. I don't want to hear you stop."

"Seriously?" Lestrade whispered, his throat burning so intensely his eyes watered. "'m n-not entirely i-in the conversational mood…"

"And when have I ever displayed concern for what 'mood' you are in?"

Lestrade chuckled grimly, his vision a proper shade of black. He couldn't talk any more. He had to stop. Rest. "S-sorry, Sherlock…c-can't s-see anything…best c-come quickly…might be gone…when you g-get here…"

Sherlock's voice rang fiercely on the other end. "Idiot! We are on the stairs now. Pull yourself together! And maybe don't take a bullet next time!"

The pain was dimming. Slowly, but surely. A small nag at the back of his mind. He was numb and cold more than anything. The last words came out lower than a whisper: "'s all part o' the job…"

As the shadows encased him and his mind plummeted into the darkness, he listened to the swing of a door and a scream of despair. Fingers found themselves curling around his jacket, tearing at the fabric to access the wound. Shouts and cries of fear and desperation rang across the room—

-falling onto the ears of a man no more.

* * *

Ah, I certainly am a horrible human being. Ah well. If I receive enough reviews/follows/favorites, I might let Lestrade live. But you know...no one wants that...


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